


A Tale of Two Surgeries

by AnnaBolena



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Grantaire being Grantaire, Have a sip of this, Hopeful ending though xx, I know babes, It's been a Hot Minute Since I've Written Modern AU stuff, Les Mis Trans Week 2019, M/M, Modern AU, That is to say: Warnings for alcohol and graphic descriptions of what alcohol can cause, Trans Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 08:09:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20720969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena
Summary: Grantaire falls into step with Combeferre easily, delivers a smooth greeting. “Good evening, doctor. I seem to be suffering from an acute lack of sufficient intoxication. What do you suppose would constitute adequate therapy?”“Power through and abstain in the future,” he answers honestly. Grantaire makes a show of looking disapproving.“You did ask me as a doctor. I’m sure Joly would say the same."a.k.a. Enjolras and Grantaire have very different hospital experiences, as told by Combeferre





	A Tale of Two Surgeries

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who got bled on substantially during a Friday shift? Me, bitch. Combeferre's patient stories in this are all based in truth, fyi. Hospital work is wild. 
> 
> Thanks to @Enjoloras for looking this over for me. :)

**WEEK ONE**

Tonight’s meeting is on a Sunday, for a change. Combeferre arrives late. Work dragged on so late that by the time he walks into the Corinth, only two notable exceptions remain sober. Enjolras and Courfeyrac sit huddled in the back, holding a phone up between them and whisper-yelling into the speaker. There is not even a pretense of a meeting going on, which is fine by Combeferre. He’s too exhausted to muster the energy required to debate any more than he has had to do at the hospital today. 

Being a well-trained doctor, Combeferre decides to go on rounds before he approaches the two men he will most likely spend the most time with tonight. Grantaire is returning from the bar with a tray of beers as Combeferre walks towards the tables, much to the delight of Bahorel. His cheers are certainly indicative of a strong will to indulge, seconded by Feuilly and Bossuet alike. Grantaire falls into step with Combeferre easily, delivers a smooth greeting. “Good evening, doctor. I seem to be suffering from an acute lack of sufficient intoxication. What do you suppose would constitute adequate therapy?”

“Power through and abstain in the future,” he answers honestly. Grantaire makes a show of looking disapproving. “You did ask me as a doctor. I’m sure Joly would say the same.”

He says that last part in a half-yell, if only to get someone else on board with this conversation. Though he enjoys debating Grantaire on many topics, the subject of alcohol is one he can’t comfortably touch on. “I sure would,” Joly agrees loudly, only half-listening as he is being hand-fed peanuts.

“What about as a friend?”

“Cheers, in that case.” Combeferre relents, folding his hands behind his back, unsure what to do with them. 

“That’s more like it,” Grantaire elbows his side, pulling him along to the table. “Look who I dragged in,” he addresses their assembled friend group in jovial tones. “The great doctor himself -- sorry, Jolllly, dear, the Great  _ Internist _ himself! We - and most of all our dear leader, of course - have already found the Great Surgeon himself! What a man--”

“Not another speech, dear,” Jehan shouts, interrupting a five-minute-sentence in the making. “You’ll ruin the magic of the first one.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Grantaire mimes zipping his mouth shut.

“I’m sorry to have missed it,” Combeferre truthfully admits. 

“There’ll be more speeches,” Grantaire grins, all too eager to break his dramatically self-imposed silence. “You know me, I never miss an opportunity to pontificate. Have a drink.”

“I’m working tomorrow.” 

“So is Joly,” Bahorel laughs. “And he’s  _ operating _ .”

“Which is why I am having non-alcoholic cider. Bought a glass for you as well, Ferre, come sit down.” Joly beckons. Combeferre can’t very well pass up non-alcoholic cider. It goes down too easily. 

“Wouldn’t want you getting drunk and ruining Enjolras’ nipples tomorrow. What would the poor guy do then?” Bahorel continues to tease.

“Enjolras’ shapely right nipple is half of his allure. Do not butcher this, Doctor,” Feuilly agrees, face deadpan. 

“You’ve never even seen it!” Courfeyrac has apparently hit mute on his business call long enough to participate in this ridiculousness. 

“The mystery surrounding it makes up the other half,” Feuilly is quick to retort. 

Enjolras seems to be in good spirits, because he merely shows an amused smile before turning Courfeyrac’s attention back to their call. 

“Didn’t butcher yours, did I?” Joly shoves Feuilly as hard as he can from his perch on Bossuet’s lap. “Can’t say I did either. You’re the one who gave Enjolras the recommendation.”

“It’s true,” Feuilly concedes. “My chest is living testament to your skill with the blade. Thank you, my friend.”

Combeferre moves on to the back table when he watches Enjolras end the call and pocket his phone. “Same case as usual?”

In lieu of answering, Courfeyrac pulls him down by the collar to give him a rather noisy kiss. “Yes,” Enjolras says dryly when Courfeyrac detaches himself. “We’re worried about the cop’s defense.”

“ _ You’re _ worried,” Courfeyrac corrects. “I call bullshit on ‘Yeah, I’ve only ever known one man as strong as you in all my life so you’re definitely an escaped convict’ holding up in court. Oops. Pinky swear to secrecy, Ferre. Pinky swear it right now.”

Combeferre sighs and says, “Hippocrathic oath, my darling,” but fulfills the expected swear anyway.

“Only applicable if you were treating me, and then you would be guilty of canoodling with a patient. Ethically compromised, stripped of your doctorate -- where would we be then? I’d be the sole provider!”

“We’re just digging ourselves deeper, aren’t we?”

“I’m afraid so,” Courfeyrac nods. “We’ll have to rely on the pinky swear. To paraphrase: Enj is pretending to be worried about the case so that he cannot be worried about the surgery, even though we’ve gone over our arguments at least five times and still have a month to work on the case. I’m humoring his attempt because not only am I a great boyfriend, I’m an  _ amazing _ best friend. Tea for you, Doctor Those-pants-look-great-on-you-but-would-look-even-better-on-our-carpet?”

“Thank you.” Combeferre gives Courfeyrac a quick kiss to send him off. Then he turns to Enjolras. “I heard Grantaire gave a speech?”

“A very good one.” Enjolras sounds troublingly surprised by the pronounced judgement. “It was very nice of him. Not as long as his usual ones either, and dare I say the tone struck me as optimistic? He wears it well, you’d never guess him to be so cynical from the way he spoke of my bright future tonight. I enjoyed it.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Come again?”

“You heard me.”

Things have changed between Enjolras and Grantaire. Given that they have known each other for over ten years, some change is expected down the road of friendship, but it recent months the change has snowballed so fast that Combeferre has had a little trouble keeping up with exactly how close they are now. They spend time in private, just the two of them. Apparently they talk, if how often Enjolras references something Grantaire said in a discussion once is anything to go by. 

“Shut up,” Enjolras mutters, blushing. 

(“You think that’s going to happen?” Courfeyrac whispers into his ear when Enjolras hugs Grantaire good night two blocks from their own apartment building. 

“I’ve been waiting with bated breath. Enjolras was blushing when I asked him about it,” Combeferre tells him, leaning in closer. “But that could be embarrassment at us treating him like our son and monitoring whom he may or may not be dating.”

“Enjolras gets furious-embarrassed. Not blushy. This is smitten, Ferre. Trust me.”)

+

It’s Monday, just past noon. Courfeyrac is carrying Enjolras’ overnight bag and bouncing on his heels. Enjolras is fiddling with his fingers as a nurse takes his blood. Combeferre knows this because he agitates enough that the nurse - Caroline, Combeferre thinks he’s seen her once or twice during rounds - has to remind Enjolras not to move. “Sir, we’ll get a wrong read.”

By the time Joly comes into the room, it almost feels like a normal meeting between friends. Combeferre catches himself looking at the door once or twice, expecting the rest of the group to come through at any second. “You wanna watch?” Joly catches Combeferre by the elbow when Enjolras is sent off for prep. “You can watch if you want to.”

“I don’t think Enjolras wants me to. You’ll do a great job, Joly, don’t give in to your nerves.”

Joly nods, seriously, “I know I will, or I wouldn’t have agreed to do it for him.”

“Thanks for inviting me too,” Courfeyrac jokes, hooking an arm under Combeferre’s. “But we’re going out for brunch and we’ll be back in three hours. Enjolras wasn’t allowed to eat this morning and we fasted in solidarity. But I’m literally going to cry if I don’t get a breakfast burrito inside of me within the next hour. Love you lots, Joly. Bye!”

(Enjolras wakes up four hours and seventeen minutes later, looks down at his chest and smiles the dopiest smile residual anesthesia can buy.)

+

Tuesday morning, just after nine-thirty, Combeferre is talking with Theo - who is on shift with him today - over a cup of coffee, when he catches Grantaire trying to take a wide circle around his field of vision. It doesn’t work. “Hey, Grantaire. What are you doing here?”

“ _ Hey _ , Combeferre.” The greeting is drawn out, like Combeferre caught Grantaire at something illegal. “Great to see you, how are you doing? Good shift so far? I heard Enjolras is awake.”

“He’s been texting the group chat since seven last night.”

“I was still with a potential buyer then. Couldn’t make it until now.”

“Visitation hours aren’t until 12.”

“Well, shit.” Grantaire pauses, dumbfounded. “That’s inconvenient.” 

He glances at his phone, sighs: “I definitely have another meeting in two hours that I can’t push. The price you pay for selling enough art to raise yourself above the poverty line, am I right?”

“I can sneak you in,” Combeferre offers, emptying his cup and nodding at Theo. “Get me that consult today, please. I will buy you coffee for a week if psych can take him off my hands.”

“What consult?” Grantaire wonders after they’ve left Theo behind, sipping the remnants of his coffee and savoring whatever remains of his break. 

“One of my patients is convinced he’s got the rarest blood group on earth. According to him the only possible donor lives in Poland,” Combeferre explains.

“What’s that blood type? I think I read something about it once - Bombay phenotype? Is that it? Is that what he has? Exciting!”

“B negative.”

“ _ I _ have B negative. Doesn’t Courfeyrac have B negative as well?”

“Hence the psych consult.” 

“Ah.” Grantaire nods. “I could pretend to be Polish and help you out in exchange for having you sneak me in. Feuilly has been teaching me how to order beer.”

“I appreciate it,” Combeferre laughs, holding a door open for Grantaire. “Are you coming to the Musain tonight?”

“We’ll see,” Grantaire shrugs. “Courfeyrac is a little too scary when he gets worked up about injustice, and always a bit too heavy for my taste in Tuesday’s topic. Anger is for Fridays--”

“Enjolras isn’t known for light and breezy either and you hang onto every word from his lips.”

“Low blow.”

“Courfeyrac just cares a lot,” Combeferre sighs. 

“I know he does. And sure, he will start off joking, but then in the blink of an eye he’ll have roped me into contributing to the bake sale because I’m scared he might trash my studio if I say no. I’ve already told Enjolras no. Twice. Baking cupcakes is too much commitment for a single weekend. It takes me half a week to get the nerve to do my dishes.”

“He’s a hard man to say no to,” Combeferre agrees, smiling.

“Say what you will about Enjolras’ intensity.  _ Courfeyrac _ burned the anti-rioters bill on the Musain’s decorative table candles.”

“Before Musichetta threatened to throw us out,” Combeferre remembers. 

“I’ve always wondered -- is he like that in bed as well?”

“Keep wondering.” Combeferre feels the time has come to end this conversation. “Enjolras is in wing 1.8, room 32. Does he know you’re coming?”

“He asked me to come,” Grantaire confirms. “I wouldn’t ambush him.”

(“I can’t believe he called  _ me  _ scary for standing up to injustice,” Courfeyrac huffs, seconds before he hands Combeferre his half-full glass and gets onto the table, waving around press statements from Macron’s cabinet like a weapon until those gathered fall silent. Grantaire is notably absent.)

+

“How is the swelling?” Courfeyrac asks when Enjolras comes home on Friday with Combeferre. The second Enjolras smiles, Courfeyrac engulfs him in a very enthusiastic hug.

“Already receding. The nurses were very forthcoming with ice packs - I think Joly must have pulled some strings.”

“That,” Combeferre nods, “Or they liked that when you woke up from surgery you promised you wanted to fight with them for better wages.”

Enjolras shrugs. “Could be, their wages are terrible and their hours are worse. What are your plans for the evening?”

“We’re going to a panel on racism in the medical industry,” Courfeyrac announces cheerfully. “Are you coming along? Sounds like something you’d enjoy.”

“I’m going to sit this one out, but notes would be appreciated,” Enjolras declines, much to their surprise. At their continued silence, he explains: “Grantaire is coming over for dinner. He’s going to teach me how to bake.”

“We won’t be back until very late, in that case,” Courfeyrac promises. “Come to think of it, Ferre, isn’t there a nice little bar I wanted us to check out so I could approach you and try out all my new, fantastic pick-up lines?”

“I can’t wait,” Combeferre smiles.

“Tell Grantaire to bake cupcakes for the protest, while he’s already here.”

“I already asked him twice,” Enjolras frowns. “He said he’s too unreliable for me to trust him with this, and if you’d seen his sink you would agree to leave well enough alone where baking is concerned.”

“Ask him thrice, preferably before I get around to doing it once.”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Grantaire, don’t think we haven’t noticed.” Combeferre brings the subject up again after it looks like Courfeyrac is going to let Enjolras get away with the whole matter without as much as a knowing look, evidently too excited by the prospect of flirting with Combeferre at some seedy joint.

“He’s been great,” Enjolras answers defensively. “Ever since the surgery he keeps on texting me to drink enough water and take my pain meds. You and Courfeyrac are both so busy with work and I can’t work for another week or so—”

“And that’s why you’re spending time with him?”

“Of course not,” Enjolras rolls his eyes. “I like him. Don’t pretend like you don’t know that, you just want to hear me say it.”

“There it is!” Courfeyrac sounds gleeful. “Are you shooting your shot tonight? Is that why you want us gone so badly?”

“I’m –  _ no _ , I’m not doing that tonight. We’re taking things slow.”

“Does he know you’re even taking things?”

“What?”

“Does Grantaire know you’re d-a-t-i-n-g?” Courfeyrac reiterates. 

“I – yeah?”

“Are you sure?” Combeferre can’t help but throw in. 

“You know Grantaire,” Courfeyrac adds, making a few empathic hand movements to aid the sentiment he is trying to convey. “He has a tendency of talking himself out of the things he wants. Also has a tendency to dismiss things he doesn’t think he’s worthy of as his mind playing tricks on him. So: does he know you’re dating?”

“I asked him to go to an art exhibition two months ago and have since then asked him out at least seventeen times. That’s self-explanatory.”

“It really isn’t. You ask people to grab food all the time. Yesterday you asked me to get lunch with you at the hospital cafeteria,” Courfeyrac says. “Hate to tell you this, but he might not know you’re dating.”

Enjolras silently broods those words. Courfeyrac pats his cheek fondly. “Tell him you  _ like him _ like him. You’ll be happier for it if you’re blunt. So will he, I think. Saves everyone a lot of unnecessary drama.”

  
  


+

On Saturday, Courfeyrac leads the meeting again. He enters the room by wrapping an arm around Grantaire’s shoulder and ruffling his hair. “I’m so sorry to disappoint, but our dear leader will be back in his newer, more powerful form on Tuesday, fret not.”

“This is fine,” Grantaire lies. 

“So, R, I heard you wanted to make cupcakes for the bake sale,” Courfeyrac approaches Grantaire after the initial points have been presented and most have fallen into off-topic conversations. 

“Any requirements, you great big bully?” 

“Make them delicious.”

“What sort of baker do you take me for?” 

“See?” Courfeyrac turns to Combeferre. “That wasn’t roping at all. He practically jumped at the chance.”

“Allow Grantaire to pretend he isn’t invested in what we do for a moment longer, my darling.” Combeferre turns to Grantaire. “You really are being a tad obvious, though.”

+

**WEEK TWO**

When Enjolras returns to the Musain on Tuesday, he returns to the sound of cheers. 

“Here.” Courfeyrac hands him a piece of paper. “Racially insensitive notes from the senate hearing. Burn that so we’re back on the same level of radical intensity.”

“Didn’t Enjolras get arrested for punching a bigot our second year of uni?” Bahorel calls out. 

“That’s pretty radical,” Joly nods. Bossuet agrees: “Not to mention intense.” 

“Courfeyrac was arrested with me that day.” Enjolras shakes his head, flipping through the papers quickly. “Why are we debating this?” 

“Grantaire missed your dulcet tones,” Jehan reveals. “Courfeyrac’s leadership is too rife with anarchy for his taste.”

Enjolras looks at Grantaire, incomprehensive, when the latter comes back from the bathroom in time to hear Jehan’s announcement. Grantaire shrugs, grinning at him. “Perhaps I missed more than that. Evening, dear leader. Good to see you back on your feet so soon. Aren’t you worried about infection?”

“My doctor is at hand and he isn’t worried.”

“I am a little worried,” Joly pipes up. “I also have a shift starting in two hours, and before that I’d like to know if we’re leaving it at the protest bake sale or if we’re going to pass Courfeyrac’s motion to throw rocks at the congressman’s window if he doesn’t come down to talk to us.”

“We’re not damaging private property,” Combeferre sighs. “We don’t need this group associated with illegal activity. Courfeyrac could lose his license to practice law.”

“Property is a lie to keep the people divided,” Courfeyrac jeers. 

“It’s true,” Feuilly nods. 

Enjolras tries to hide a smile as he addresses the group. “Those in favor of smashing the congressman’s window?”

Bahorel, Feuilly and Courfeyrac raise their hands. Tentatively, Enjolras adds his own. It’s not a swing. “On our own time, then.”

Bahorel rubs his hands gleefully. “I’m thinking brick.”

“I can stamp one with a message on it,” Feuilly suggests. They clink their bottles. 

“Why would you do this?” Combeferre pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“I haven’t got a license for them to revoke,” Bahorel grins wildly. “May as well, eh?”

Once Grantaire has imbibed a bit more, he sidles up to Courfeyrac: “Hey. You’ll get the cupcakes on Thursday. I’m sure they’ll keep until Saturday. Personally I’m going to sit the protest-adjourning bake sale out.”

“No need, we voted that there wouldn’t be any rioting until after,” Courfeyrac dismisses. “You can stay until at least noon.”

“My parents are requesting I meet them on Friday and I need the weekend to recover before I can be in human company again. Trust me, you do not want to see the state I will be in.”

Courfeyrac is swayed. “Fair,” he says. 

(Enjolras volunteers to walk Grantaire home. Next to Combeferre, Courfeyrac is grinning. “House to ourselves and a day off for you tomorrow? Guess what we’re doing all night?”

“My darling, you have work in the morning.”

“I make my own hours. Have a cup of coffee, we’ll need it.”)

+

Combeferre’s first night shift for this block - a Friday evening no less - starts with him having to tell a young couple that, yes, butt plugs can break off if the material is too eroded and cause rectal bleeds. By the time he thinks to check his phone, finding several increasingly risque snaps from Courfeyrac and some complaints of itchy nipples from Enjolras, it is already past ten. He refers Enjolras to the doctor in their friend group that actually had something to do with his surgery, and takes five minutes in the bathroom to offer poor Courfeyrac some relief. 

The night nurses - 2, tonight, since it’s Friday, and shit goes down on Fridays - arrive, bring him a cup of coffee, talk things through with him. “Too quiet so far,” Ilona says, shaking her head, ancient wisdom in her eyes making Combeferre afraid of what they are yet to face. “You will get no sleep tonight.” 

“It’s only right that the doctor doesn’t sleep, if we don’t get to,” Georges counters, moving to refill his coffee. 

Studiously, Combeferre raps his knuckles on his desk twice. No need to invite disaster. Kenny from ENT has exactly two patients whose files were finished for him by a bored late shift, so he joins Combeferre in the ER for two hours while Combeferre attempts to sift through the pileup of files. “I don’t sleep during night shifts,” Kenny tells Combeferre when he tries to be gracious and send him off into the on-call room. “Can’t focus for at least half an hour after waking up. Can’t allow that on the job, Henri.”

“Then I appreciate the help.”

“Hey, whatever happened to the guy with the billiard cue broken off in his ear?”

“Wasn’t he transferred to your floor?”

Kenny rolls the creaking chair halfway across the room to hack away at the computer. “Oh, he was. They discharged him while I was still off. Fuckers.”

“Sucks.”

“I was looking forward to it.”

“The nurses took pictures--”

A knock on the door has Combeferre excusing himself and Kenny graciously accepting the pause in conversation. Ilona is already halfway done with the case presentation before Combeferre can tell her to stop: “Patient’s name is Thibault Grantaire, 29 years old, coming in with substantial hematemesis.”

“Is he intubated yet?”

“EMT is still trying to sedate him.”

When the doors open and two frantic young men push in a gurney, Combeferre sees a blood-covered shirt, a blood-soaked dark beard, and the wide open eyes of a convulsing friend. “Oh,  _ Grantaire _ .”

“Estimated blood loss of about half a litre, tried to get him started on Terlopressin but he wouldn’t let us near him with a needle.”

“Ferre?” Grantaire sounds near-delirious. 

“Yeah, I’m here. Hold still for me, we’re gonna give you a nice little needle so we can sedate you, alright?”

“What’s happening to me?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out,” Combeferre assures him, squeezing his shoulder. The information at hand already gives him a fairly clear picture. “But for now we need to put you to sleep so that you don’t get blood in your lungs, alright?”

“Am I dying?”

“Many decades from now, yes.”

Grantaire smiles weakly, then spits blood again. Combeferre has Ilona place the needle, not for the first time immeasurably grateful that he is working with someone who has done this longer than he has even been alive. “Hand me the feeding tube.”

“What are we thinking?” Ilona talks, stopping Combeferre from watching in silent horror as blood is pumped from Grantaire’s stomach. “Ruptured varices?”

“Patient has known C2-abuse over at least a decade,” Combeferre confirms. “Give him a liter of ringer for me and call the ICU, please.”

“Lactulose, too?”

“I’m leaving that for ICU to decide.”

“Pantoprazol?”

“Absolutely.”

Grantaire sleeps uneasily, even on a steady drip of sedation. “The bleeding stopped,” he tells Ilona when she finds him still by Grantaire’s bedside. “Pumped another litre from his stomach. Probably empty now, but...”

“ICU has a bed for him.”

“That’s good.”

“You know him?”

“Yeah,” Combeferre pulls himself together. “I’ve known him since my first year of university.”

“He’ll pull through. Go change, Henri. We have a pregnant woman feeling faint in the next room, she doesn’t need to see you covered in blood. Frankly, neither do I.”

+

Enjolras is still in pajamas when Combeferre comes through the door. He’s got a fresh cup of coffee in his hand and a whole canister of lavender tea brewed for Combeferre. “Oh, bad shift?”

“One worrying patient, otherwise mostly quiet,” Combeferre denies. “Pretty good for a Friday night, actually.”

“Must have been a  _ very _ worrying patient.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You have that look on your face. Courfeyrac calls it the Man of Regret. Apparently you wear it when you think you’ve made a mistake.”

“I think the worrying event could have been prevented years ago.”

“Ah,” Enjolras nods. “Sorry to hear it. Repeat offender, so to speak?”

“In a way, yeah. I’m hungry.”

“Courfeyrac made you oatmeal before he left for work.”

“That’s good of him.”

“Apparently you stopped responding to his sexting by ten so he figured you had a rough night, and at the very least you deserve the finest oats in all of Paris. His words, not mine.”

“He told you that?”

“In his defense, I asked. Mistakes were made.”

“Did _ he _ ask you about why you sent me texts about itchy nipples?”

“It didn’t come up. I was just curious as to why he was cooking. You know he doesn’t have breakfast when he goes into work this early.”

“Speaking of, why aren’t you at work yet?”

“Courfeyrac is off interviewing someone for the case. I’m here to have breakfast with you, like we agreed. But you look fit for bed.”

Combeferre only nods. 

“That’s okay. Need to leave for work soon anyway. Are you coming tonight?”

He nods again. “But leaving early, sorry.”

“I know. How many night shifts in this block?”

“Full seven.”

Enjolras pulls a face. “Joly never gets this many night-shifts.”

“Well, he’s a cosmetic surgeon. No one comes in at two AM looking to have an emergency rhinoplasty.”

“I feel like my chest is healing nicely, but the cream they gave me at the hospital makes me itch. Hence the messages. Joly has an early shift, he was already in bed by ten and I didn’t want to risk waking him up.”

“Let me see,” Combeferre sighs around a mouth full of oatmeal. Enjolras diligently pulls his t-shirt up and peels off the dressing. “I think you’re having a reaction to the cream. Tell him that and let him prescribe you an alternative. Also, get an allergy test.”

“Courfeyrac said I should use aloe vera.”

“When they’ve scabbed over completely.” 

Enjolras empties his coffee, waves goodbye to Combeferre, then strides to his bedroom to get dressed. 

+

“--Want to shower before the meeting?” Combeferre awakens to suit-clad Courfeyrac, sitting next to him on their bed, reading something that looks vaguely like the French Constitution and furiously scribbling on a hot pink sticky note. The reading glasses he pretends not to need in social settings nearly fall off when Courfeyrac leans across the mattress to poke him. 

“It’s barely two. You’re looking very different to your protest get up. Were we successful?”

“The congressman showed up, smartly avoiding a smashed window or two. Feuilly is saving the brick for Christmas. Wastefulness is a vice of capitalism and we will not partake.”

“Good. Did you go into work after?”

“Bahorel was arrested so I tried to look appropriate for the police station. It’s been a busy day.”

“Come here and nap with me then,” Combeferre paws at him, trying to pull him closer and only partially succeeding. “We have hours until the meeting starts.”

“True. But I have devious aims, so our trip to the bathroom is going to take a while.”

“In that case a shower sounds great. Just let me wake up a little beforehand.”

“Good  _ morning _ ,” Courfeyrac leers. Setting his book down, he crawls on top of Combeferre. “Parts of you have been awake for the last five minutes. It was a very interesting phenomenon to observe.”

“Your presence is always inspiring.”

“Is it? At the risk of sounding half in love with myself: last night I sent you some excellently inspiring pictures you never responded to.”

“I wanted to make sure they could be thoroughly appreciated. How about I look at them now and we appreciate them together?”

“Hmm...or you could tell me what was so disturbing last night that you didn’t get the chance to be blown away.”

“Got bled on a lot.”

“I hate it when they bleed. Did the patient make it?”

“He was still breathing when I left this morning, but we had to intubate and his vitals were all over the place half the night. Gonna take a while until we’re over the hill with him.”

“That’s not fun.”

“No it isn’t,” Combeferre agrees. “How are your case preparations coming along?”

“Enjolras is more confident now that the surgery is over and done with and he can pour all of his energy into defending our client.”

“And are  _ you _ ?”

“I’m always confident.” 

+

“What kind of mad man comes to watch his friends drink before he goes to work the night shift?” Joly greets him with a cup of tea at their table when they arrive for the meeting.

“Where’s Grantaire?” Enjolras looks around the room, appearing a little lost.

“He’s visiting family this weekend,” Joly tells him. “Didn’t he say?”

“Ah,” Enjolras nods. “Yes, I remember he said he’d have dinner with them on friday.”

**+**

**WEEK THREE**

“What happened to Mr. Grantaire?” Combeferre asks Luise from the ICU when he catches her in the changing rooms as she leaves the hospital on sunday evening. 

“Vitals stabilized, varices were ligated - the chief himself did the endoscopy - and after transfusions we moved him to your floor. Jeanne will tell you in ten minutes, I expect.”

“I’m in the ER until Thursday.”

“Oh, he’ll still be there by Thursday, trust me. That one is a case destined to haunt me in my sleep. Doesn’t stop talking - ever. Non-compliant. Bothers the nurses. Keeps wanting to leave.”

“Thanks.”

+

“Ferre!” Grantaire hastens to come upright into a seat when he sees Combeferre slip into his room shortly after eight on Monday morning. “Heard you saved my life. Thanks, man.”

“Literally my job.”

“Not at all swayed by sentiment?”

“Slightly, perhaps. How are you feeling, R?”

“Like shit. How are you feeling? Aren’t you off the clock now?”

“Overtime pays well.” Combeferre’s response is dry. “What else did they tell you?”

“Your chief told me I have a cirrhotic liver. CHILD A. I had to google it.”

“Are you surprised?”

“I was spoiling for it, I know. Thought it would take longer though. I’m only 29, Ferre.”

Combeferre wisely chooses to say nothing. 

“They’re putting me in the tube tomorrow morning. Apparently the ultrasound found something other than cirrhosis. They’re also putting me through hell. Every hour a nurse comes in here to ask me about withdrawal symptoms. Tell them to stop. I’m only sweating a little bit, that’s all.”

“Your symptoms will get worse for a couple of days,” Combeferre tells him. “And you don’t have to face whatever comes next alone, you know that right?”

“I suppose you want me to tell Enjolras?” Grantaire sighs, slumps back in his bed a little to stare at the ceiling, melancholy overshadowing the pain on his face. “We had plans to meet tonight.”

“What were you planning?”

“There’s -- they’re showing a movie in that small independent cinema in the fourth quarter.” Grantaire rubs his eyes. “Spoiler: apparently the trans main character gets a happy ending. He really wanted to go see it; he was so excited for it.”

“Look - I don’t mean to pry...”

“Then don’t?”

“But something is clearly going on between the two of you.” Combeferre phrases the thing as diplomatically as he possibly can. 

“So our interactions would have you believe. As it is most of it has been like flirting with a wall. It’s a very nice wall, so I enjoy it. Whatever it is, I think we’re both enjoying actually being friends after so many years of vague animosity on his and unrequited pining on my part.”

“The first time Enjolras met you he didn’t shut up about you for days,” Combeferre points out. 

“Maybe so, but you can’t tell me that was a glowing review.”

Combeferre hadn’t known Enjolras before either, but Courfeyrac had assured him that he even talked about Grantaire at such length meant he liked him a lot more than he pretended, even that first year of university. 

“Perhaps not, no.”

“And come on -- this? Why would Enjolras want to deal with this mess?”

“You supported him with his surgery. He kept going on about your speech and how grateful he was for your support.”

“I was drunk. No one likes my drunk speeches, though it’s very good of you to bear them with so little complaint.”

“He liked it, I swear he did. And he liked you coming to visit him. He liked that you were there for him, and if I know him at all, I can promise you he would want to be there for you.”

Grantaire shuts his mouth. 

“I can’t tell him,” he groans after half a minute passed in silence is evidently too much to take.

“That’s your choice.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“I’m legally not allowed to. I want to, though.”

“He doesn’t deserve to have me cancel plans with some lame excuse.”

“I agree.”

“But what he deserves even less is walking me through medical problems I caused with my own stupid decisions. He’s got enough hospital visits to deal with to last him a lifetime. I can’t put him through ‘surprise, the person you’ve been hanging out with may have cancer’. Yeah, google said that might be something I can look forward to soon.”

“You’re more than just a person he’s been hanging out with, Grantaire.”

“So you say,” Grantaire sighs. “Get some sleep, Ferre. You look exhausted, no offense. I know I have no room to talk, but you’re not even a patient.”

+

Joly stomps into his office with gluten-free donuts Tuesday evening, throws them onto the table, slams the door. “Your shift ended two hours ago. Why are you still here?” Combeferre wonders, rubbing his temples. “I’m sure your significant others miss you very much.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you saw Grantaire in the ER on Friday?”

“Have a seat, Joly,” Combeferre pats the chair next to him, already pulling up Grantaire’s file. “You had the last few days off. I couldn’t tell you via text. How was Cannes?”

“It was fucking superb, you asshole,” Joly grumbles, heartily biting into one of the donuts and shoving another one at Combeferre, who takes it, glad for the sustenance. Courfeyrac made him food for the shift, but he’s worn thin and he needs something with at least fifty percent sugar at this point in the evening.

“He came in with severe hematemesis so we intubated. Close call, but the barkeeper liked him well enough to spring into action the second Grantaire started coughing up blood. Ultrasound showed a cirrhotic liver—” Combeferre shows the corresponding image, watches Joly wince. “Mild ascites, nothing major so far. There was no need to inform you then.”

“Grantaire could have died!”

“In which case you  _ would _ have been informed. Did you know you’re his emergency contact?”

“His sister isn’t eighteen yet and his parents are assholes, so we shook hands on it a few years back,” Joly confirms.

“There’s more,” Combeferre says darkly, pulling up another image and scrolling. “Did you see the CT?”

“Sizable lesion in the left lobe, no noticeable infiltration of nearby vessels or lymph nodes.” For a while, both men are silent. Then Joly swallows the rest of his donut, says: “Could be a hemangioma.”

“I hoped it might be,” Combeferre agrees. “But I did some blood work – his AFP is elevated, and he swears his testicles are completely normal, but if you want to convince him to have someone inspect his balls, be my guest. Joly, I think we’re looking at HCC.”

“In which case we’d need a second imaging to confirm, then we can save ourselves the trouble of accidentally taking a biopsy from a hemangioma. What are they doing?”

“CEUS is scheduled for Thursday. I couldn’t free up a spot tomorrow.”

“Damn our understaffed hospital.”

“That’s what I thought,” Combeferre agrees, hands Joly another donut. 

“The lesion is small.” Joly gets up, pacing to and fro, speaking as if to convince himself, munching on the donut as though his life depends on it. “Grantaire has options. It’s not too big. You could -- someone could operate on that, right?”

“For now they want to see if they need to puncture it. One of the radiology guys got creative and thought it might be FNH, but I don’t see any wheel-like characteristics in the lesion, do you?”

Joly squints at the image for a while before shaking his head. “I knew I should have taken that radiology elective. What if it  _ is  _ a hemangioma?”

“Then they won’t do a biopsy, obviously. He’s lost enough blood as it is. None of the radiology guys except the creative one think its benign.”

“What if the tumor has metastasized already?”

“Joly-”

“What if he’s going to be dead within the year? God, all the puns I’ve been keeping from him!”

“Joly!” Combeferre stops him, voice strained. “It’s confined to his liver. The CT says as much. We caught it at an early stage, whatever it is. He’s got a very good chance of beating this.”

“If he stops drinking,” Joly predicts darkly.

Both men sigh.

“Yes, if he stops drinking.”

“Fuck.” Joly buries his face in his hands, dark hair falling to shield him further. “Did you tell him yet?”

“Grantaire did a lot of very effective googling on the subject.”

“He would,” Joly smiles fondly. “Let me know when you’re telling him. I’m going to go give Grantaire an earful. Where is he now?”

“Station 2.4, Room 601,” Combeferre responds. “Did you prescribe Enjolras a more suitable cream yet?”

“Well, he hasn’t complained about itchy nipples in days. I think the new cream is fine. I’m seeing him again tomorrow.”

“Go give Grantaire an earful - see that you don’t wake his neighbor.”

“I wish you a pleasant night shift,” Joly pushes the remaining donuts towards him. “If any of our other friends come into the ER, do please let me know. I’m on call for endoscopies tonight.”

\+ 

“Grantaire should have accompanied me here,” Enjolras sighs when Caroline approaches with the tray to take his blood. “He said he wanted to, but apparently he couldn’t make it. Swamped with projects at the moment.”

“I can do this one, take a breather,” Combeferre tells Caroline. She gives him a grateful smile but only moves on to another patient. Enjolras sticks his arm out dutifully, continues talking, pausing only to wince when the needle pierces skin. 

“And I’m glad he’s been there for me through this, it’s already a lot more than can be expected, but I really, really, wanted to see him today. I haven’t seen him in - oh, wow. It’s been a week, hasn’t it? No, longer; I haven’t seen him since last Wednesday. He hasn’t come to the meetings. Grantaire always comes to meetings.”

“Call him.”

“He’s  _ busy _ . Maybe I should wait for him to call me.”

“Since when do you wait around for anything?” Combeferre pulls the needle out, applies pressure, hands a passing Caroline the tubes. 

“Since I have a very fraught history with Grantaire and don’t want to push where he doesn’t want to be pushed.”

“Hmm,” Combeferre says, at a loss for words. Idly, he hopes they might run into Grantaire in the hospital. He thinks it would solve his dilemma quite smoothly. Even if he won’t force the conversation, he strongly feels that it needs to happen and so cannot help but wish for it. “Thank you for coming with me though, I know it’s your day off,” Enjolras finishes. “I think we’re ready to go up.”

“Of course,” Combeferre smiles, puts a hand on Enjolras back to steer him towards the elevator. Just as the doors begin to close Julie from ICU wedges herself inside.

“Oh hi, Henry. I thought it was your day off? Hey, did you hear about your cirrhotic patient from last weekend? Apparently, he refused to have his blood drawn again and –”

“I’m off the clock,” Combeferre interrupts her.

“He’s here with me,” Enjolras adds helpfully. “You can tell him about the patient when he comes back to work on Monday.”

Joly spins around on his chair dramatically when Enjolras enters, beaming. “Morning, lads. Combeferre, you’re up way too early. You didn’t leave until an hour after I arrived today.” 

“He hasn’t slept yet,” Enjolras reveals.

“Ah, that’ll do it. Let’s get this done quickly then so he can rest.”

“Do you want to get lunch afterwards?” Enjolras asks Joly, pointing to Combeferre as he continues: “He’s getting dinner with Courfeyrac and Grantaire ditched me. We had plans.”

“He – what?”

“He’s getting dinner—”

“No, I caught that. Grantaire didn’t tell you?”

“Oh, I know he’s busy. I’m not mad at him. Just don’t want to cancel my lunch plans. We had reservations.”

“Yeah,” Joly huffs, “Swamped. So busy, that Grantaire.”

Combeferre throws Joly a warning glance. Thankfully, he desists. “How’s your chest?”

“The compression binder helped a lot.”

“Did you get your blood drawn yet?”

“Half an hour ago.”

“Normally we wouldn’t even keep you overnight after surgery, but blood clots run in your family, you said—”

“Combeferre has read the case file, no need to recap for him,” Enjolras interrupts him.

“Right,” Joly clicks away furiously at his laptop. “Lab looks good. Platelets are in top form…nothing to be concerned about as far as I can tell. Let’s have a look at you, then.”

Enjolras dutifully removes his shirt and allows Joly to inspect him. “Any issues with the new cream?” 

“None at all. I feel great.”

“Excellent. Hey, sidenote - Have you thought of giving R a call?”

“Didn’t want to bother him when he’s so busy.”

“Call him,” Joly insists. “Ask him how he’s doing. I’m sure he wants to talk to you.”

Enjolras smiles brightly. “Thanks, maybe I will. Are you trying to get out of lunch?”

“Absolutely not. I can take my break in a half hour. There is one more patient I have to scold before I do. Actually, Combeferre; I think you’ve seen this patient too, would you mind discussing him with me for a second?”

“Not at all.”

“Great. Enjolras, you’ll have to wait outside for this part.”

Enjolras excuses himself, hands held high in surrender. 

“R’s second imaging came back indicative of HCC,” Joly announces gravely when the door is firmly shut behind Enjolras. Combeferre sighs, resisting the urge to say that he already told Joly as much. 

“They’re puncturing him tomorrow.”

“Why are they doing that? We’ve got AFP elevation on an already cirrhotic liver and two positive screenings. A biopsy is obsolete, unless-- do they think he metastasized from somewhere else and we missed it?”

“He smoked for years before he quit and his lungs were inconclusive on the CT.” Joly taps his fingers on the table. “I asked Theo to schedule the biopsy.”

“That’s going to come up in the economic conference when the chief talks about needless spending.”

“I’m not taking the risk of being wrong about this, no matter how small it may be. Grantaire is my best friend. It’s for the same reason you asked me to do a follow up of Enjolras’ labs even though his only complaint was that he had a slight cramp in his leg at breakfast.”

“I get it, Joly. I do.”

“Are you coming with me to scold him?”

“Actually, I’m going to let you take that one by yourself.” Combeferre shakes his head. “Grantaire doesn’t talk to me about this stuff. There’s a reason you and Bossuet are his closest friends. Also, I’m the doctor treating him and so far my conduct has not been the most professional where he is concerned.”

Joly makes a face at him. “Tell Enjolras I’ll be down for lunch in twenty minutes.”

+

“Ferre, I hate to pry—”

Combeferre looks up from where he has been twisting spaghetti onto his fork for the last five minutes. It’s too heavily coated in oil. While delicious, this means it keeps on slipping off. Courfeyrac looks concerned. 

“No, you don’t, darling, but that’s all part of what I love about you.”

“You’re distracted.” Courfeyrac reaches across the table for Combeferre’s hand. “Tell me what’s keeping your mind off this unbelievably scrumptious but expensive dinner and all the anti-catholic things we’re going to get up to after the meeting. Difficult patient again?”

He relents. “He won’t tell any of his friends or family that he’s in the hospital. And it’s looking pretty serious.”

“Dead serious?”

“No, but he’ll probably require surgery. There is always a risk attached to that.”

Courfeyrac pouts. “I’m sorry to hear his stubbornness upsets you, but it is his choice.”

“You’re right – but damn, Courfeyrac, if it were me, wouldn’t you want to know?”

“Sure,” Courfeyrac agrees, “But then we’re attached at the hip. And we’re each others’ emergency contacts. And we’re practically husbands.”

“You don’t even want to get married.”

“Does not wanting to conform to societal expectations mean I can’t affectionately refer to you as my husband?”

“Of course not - I think of you like that as well,” Combeferre smiles.

“I fucking hope so, it’s been too long for me to wear any other title. Here, let me draw you a sharpie ring to commemorate this moment.”

“Do not draw a sharpie ring onto my finger.”

“Why not? Blood poisoning from ink isn’t actually a thing unless I puncture skin. You told me that.”

“Darling, the meeting is in less than an hour.”

“Are you embarrassed to be seen with the smudged manifestation of our eternal love? That’s very weak of you.”

“I have—” Courfeyrac clears his throat after Combeferre stares him down. “I have something else, if you’d prefer to wear that.”

Combeferre stares at the small box Courfeyrac places on the table between them, tapping it twice. “I have that.”

“Are you sure this isn’t a proposal?”

“It’s not. I’m not stepping foot into a church again even under duress. Let’s call it a promise ring. I like the sound of that better. No ceremony required. Just—open it.”

“After the meeting,” Combeferre announces when he slides the ring onto his finger, turning his hand over and back again, “When we’re back at home, I’m making you put on the ring I got before you told the world you never want to get married.”

“Oh no, did you really get one?” Courfeyrac’s face falls.

“Well, yeah. We were twenty and I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“I clean our room regularly. Why haven’t I ever found it?”

“I keep it with my gross work clothes.”

“And you want me to  _ wear _ it?” Courfeyrac gasps.

“If I’m wearing this one? Yes, obviously.”

“Ah, well in that case I’ll happily wear it. Come over here and kiss me, if we get the restaurant to clap maybe they’ll bring us free dessert.”

“You are incorrigible,” Combeferre laughs, already closing the distance. Courfeyrac makes a very dramatic effort at yelling: “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!”

(They don’t get the restaurant to clap, but they do get their friends to cheer for them when Bahorel notices the ring.) 

“How is Grantaire doing?” Enjolras asks Bossuet, sliding into seat next to him, vacated when Joly stands to accompany Jehan to the bathroom so that he may inspect a belly button deformation. “I haven’t heard from him since I called him yesterday. Still busy with work?”

Bossuet blinks twice, then finds the wherewithal to close his mouth again.

“He didn’t tell you?”

“Didn’t tell me what?”

Combeferre sighs. Far be it from him to intervene now, but this isn’t how he wanted Enjolras to find out.

“R is in the hospital. He asked me not to tell anyone, but I thought it was because he wanted to tell you for himself. Actually, I thought he already did - Joly said R promised he would! There’s a small issue with his liver. He’ll be back out on Monday.”

(“Did you know?” Enjolras asks Combeferre when they walk home, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, looking morose. 

“I’m his doctor,” Combeferre admits. “You should visit him.”

“He clearly doesn’t want me to.”

“Oh, when does Grantaire ever actually tell anyone what he wants?” Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “Go see him.”

“No,” Enjolras huffs. “If he wanted me there, he would have talked to me about it. We talk now. We- we talk, okay? And he didn’t mention this with a single breath.”) 

+

**WEEK FOUR**

On Monday morning, Combeferre goes to check up on Grantaire as his last patient. “You didn’t refuse to have your blood drawn today.”

“The doctor in charge on the weekend didn’t have your delicate touch,” Grantaire rolls his eyes. “He tried to scold me about my ‘apparent alcoholism’. That fucker, as if he doesn’t imbibe a little on his days off.”

“Poorly phrased,” Combeferre agrees. “But the only way to stop your liver from aggravating is to stop drinking altogether. There is no amount that is harmless, in your case.”

“Haven’t had a drop since that fateful Friday,” Grantaire defends himself. “They didn’t let me out of my room until yesterday, so I couldn’t. Bossuet and Chetta wouldn’t sneak me any, either.”

“That’s good. I’m sure Joly already talked to you about it.”

“He also scolded me.”

“Because he cares about you and you gave all of us a scare. Nobody wants to see you in a hospital, Grantaire.”

Grantaire says nothing.

“Did Enjolras call you?”

“He did,” Grantaire admits. “We had a very long talk on Friday and an even longer one on Sunday.”

“But he didn’t know you were in the hospital until Lesgles told him.”

“I didn’t want him to be burdened with my issues.”

“Enjolras wants to be burdened with your issues.” 

Grantaire stares at him for a long time, before he licks his lips and asks: “How are my labs looking, Doc?”

“Your AFP is still climbing. That worries me. But the other parameters are alright, your liver is still functioning rather well, which I think we can put down to your age. Albumin and INR are within normal ranges.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Your liver produces a lot of proteins, one of them is called Albumin, and when it no longer produces enough Albumin, water leaks out of your blood vessels into your stomach. You had a little bit of that around your liver, but they drained it when they biopsied you and it hasn’t come back.”

“The liver regenerates itself, doesn’t it?”

“You can’t reverse this, Grantaire. Not entirely. Think of your liver as having turned normal tissue into scar tissue. And scar tissue doesn’t work like normal cell tissue does. But the working tissue you have left is enough to support you and so if you’re careful you can maintain it.”

“And what about the...what did that fucker call it? The lesion? What did that turn out to be?”

“Only the biopsy--”

“Tell me what you think it is, Ferre. Please.”

Combeferre takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a beat. “I think it’s cancer.”

“Ah, shit,” Grantaire swears, but it sounds half-hearted, almost dejected. “So I’m going to die a lot sooner than a couple of decades from now?”

“The pictures aren’t the final word on this, but we caught it at an early enough stage that I think you can have a relatively normal life expectancy after an operation, provided--”

“I stop drinking altogether?”

Combeferre nods. 

“Well shit. Now I feel obligated. Hey, is it weird being a doctor for a friend? I asked Joly, but he said he only felt honored that Enjolras approached him about the surgery.”

“Treating you has highlighted to me exactly how biased a practitioner I am,” Combeferre sighs. “So yes, it’s extremely weird.”

Grantaire hums, checks his phone again.

“Thank you, Ferre. Really. You can go now, I don’t need to be coddled, and I’m sure you have a lot of work to do that I’m keeping you from.”

“Like I said, R,” Combeferre promises as he pats Grantaire’s knee. “There is no need for you to go through this alone. If you’re not in pain anymore you can even go home tomorrow.”

On his way out of the door, Combeferre collides with Enjolras.

“Visitation hours aren’t until twelve,” he tells Enjolras automatically, before waving him into the room and shutting the door firmly behind him. He sure as hell isn’t going to stand in the way of them finally talking it through.

+

Grantaire comes to the Tuesday meeting, engulfed by Bahorel seconds after entry and swung around the room. “He’s back! He overcame! He conquered!”

“It’s good to see you again,” Combeferre hears Enjolras whisper, pressing a tall glass of cranberry juice into his hand. Grantaire smiles at Enjolras, breathless from being spun around.

“You saw me yesterday.”

“It’s always good to see you.” Enjolras ducks his head, scuffing his shoe on the floorboards.

“Why,  _ Apollo _ …”

“Listen, R,” Enjolras sighs, bends closer to whisper something to him Combeferre cannot make out no matter how hard he strains to hear. When Enjolras draws away, he looks expectant. Grantaire nods, then leaves. Enjolras follows, not even making an attempt at waiting a minute or two in the name of subtlety. The room falls silent.

“That’s happening.” Courfeyrac whispers excitedly.

  
  


+

In the morning, music from the kitchen draws Combeferre from much needed sleep. Next to him, Courfeyrac groans loudly. “I am going to murder Enjolras. It’ll be a pity, but it’ll be justified.”

“Does that sound like his music to you?”

That serves to intrigue Courfeyrac. He bolts upright, sliding from the bed and hastily pulling on shorts before he throws the door wide open. Combeferre shields his eyes from the incoming light, resigning himself to the fact that he probably isn’t getting any more sleep before midday.

“Oh damn, look at those pecs!” Courfeyrac hoots. “Wow, Joly did a good job, didn’t he?”

Then, louder: “Hi Grantaire! Are you hiding behind the kitchen counter because you’re  _ naked _ ?”

When Combeferre manages to shuffle out of the room, Enjolras is leaning against one of the kitchen walls and grinning into his coffee.

“Joly did a  _ great  _ job,” Combeferre confirms. “Why is Grantaire naked in a communal kitchen?”

“Why are you three almost thirty and still living together?”

“Because it’s convenient _ and _ we can carpool,” Courfeyrac answers, stealing Enjolras’ coffee cup and draining the remains in one go. “Ugh, I hate how sweet you always make it.”

“Don’t steal my cup then?”

“Innate instincts, man,” Courfeyrac hands the empty cup back to him. “So--- this is a confirmed thing now, is it?”

Grantaire reddens in the face. Enjolras also says nothing, but the situation is rather self-explanatory.

“Next time you don’t want to be confronted about doing the nasty,” Courfeyrac laughs, “Don’t turn on music this early in the morning.”

“Courfeyrac, it’s ten. Not even I would call this an ‘early’ morning.” 

“Bold words coming from a naked man. I don’t have to avert my eyes to preserve your modesty if I don’t want to. You know that, right? Come to that, I’ve always been fascinated to know how many hickeys Enjolras leaves on his partners, care to show them off for me?”

“How on earth are you a lawyer?  _ How _ ?”

“That’s the kind of sass that gets you roped into baking more cupcakes, my friend.”

+

The next time Combeferre sees Grantaire, he has to go look for him in the hospital. Grantaire is supposed to be meeting him in his office, but instead he’s pacing in the main building’s lobby, hair disheveled, looking more anxious than Combeferre has ever seen him. They shouldn’t have this conversation here, but Combeferre thinks if they find a secluded corner, he can manage it while maintaining some semblance of professionalism.

He is about to approach, only Enjolras gets there before him, pressing a steaming cup of something - most likely coffee - into his waiting hands. Grantaire drops one hand from the cup, searching for Enjolras’ hand with shaking fingers. Enjolras curls his fingers around Grantaire’s, smiles down at him. 

Making them aware of Combeferre’s presence does nothing to sever them. Enjolras’ hand holds fast, even as it looks like Grantaire instinctively wants to draw away. 

“I’m supposed to have a check-up with Joly, but he got called into an emergency rhinoplasty,” Enjolras blurts. “Ran into Grantaire by happenstance. He asked me to come into the room for your conversation. For support.”

“Last time we spoke you didn’t even want anyone to know you were in the hospital,” Combeferre addresses Grantaire after he has given Enjolras enough of a look to convey that he knows what is going on. 

“It’s cool,” Grantaire smiles, gripping Enjolras’ hand tighter. “We talked.”

**Author's Note:**

> Some Medical Notes:  
-What actually happened to R that he had to come into the ER? When the liver turns cirrhotic (after alcohol abuse, for example), it can lead to portal hypertension (The portal vein is a big blood vessel that leads hella blood to the liver). Portal hypertension in turn leads to varices ("Shunts" to divert blood around the body via the navel, on the stomach and esophagus & rectum). Sometimes these rupture. Esophageal varices ruptures especially can cause massive blood loss.   
-Some of the meds:  
+Lactulose is given to prevent hepatic encelopathy, more simply said: So that R doesn't get problems in his brain as well.   
+Terlopressin is given to tighten the blood vessels and so prevent further bleeding  
+Pantoprazol is a proton pump inhibitor that's supposed to inhibit acid production in the stomach. If someone is vomiting blood you don't want the acid to erode the mucuous membranes of the upper GI tract as well.   
-Hemangioma & FNH are two benign growths that appear on the liver occasionally, which Joly and Combeferre discuss  
-At an early stage like Grantaire's, Hepatocellular Carcinomas can be operated on or reduced in size significantly. He's got good chances. 
> 
> There may or may not be a Grantaire companion piece in the making. Let me know if you want to read it <3  
Say Hi on [Tumblr](http://www.annabrolena.tumblr.com)


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